Quiet Sunday
by thedragonaunt
Summary: Just a Sunday afternoon family picnic in Epping Forest. What could be more ordinary than that? Established Sherlolly/Parentlock. This fic is a fluff-fest, dedicated to Sherlolly29 and inspired by her amazing image of the Hooper-Holmes family from my Sherlolly Saga. Cover art: 'William and Freddie' by kind permission of Sherlolly29. Check out her work on Tumblr!
1. Quiet Sunday Chapter One

**This story is dedicated to Sherlolly29 and is inspired by the awesomely beautiful image she has made of the Hooper-Holmes family from my Sherlolly Saga.**

 **Set six months after the events of Fatal Breath.**

 **Quiet Sunday**

 **by**

 **thedragonaunt**

 **Chapter One**

'Daddy, Daddy, is it today, Daddy?' Freddie entreated, hopping up and down in a state of barely contained hysteria.

Sherlock cracked open one eye and peered at his youngest son through long dark lashes, his vison still blurred from sleep. Freddie rested his forearms on his parents' bed and jutted his chin forward into his father's face, smiling hopefully. Sherlock freed one arm from the confines of the duvet and stroked his hand over Freddie's tousled hair.

'Wha' de madda. Fr'ddie?' he mumbled, his lips and tongue not yet under his control, following the abrupt awakening. As he struggled to shake off the after-effects of deep sleep, he felt Molly stir beside him and roll over to curl into a ball on the far side of the bed. But Freddie was speaking again.

'Is it today, Daddy? Are we doing it today?'

With a monumental effort, Sherlock opened his other eye, too, and blinked at the earnest little face mere millimetres from his own.

'Doing what, Freddie? I don't even know what day it is!'

'Oh, Daddy! It's Sunday, silly,' Freddie exclaimed, bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet, which made the bed bounce in sympathy.

'OK, steady on, Freddie, you're making me sea sick,' the harassed father pleaded.

At least he was awake now and, being awake, he was aware of the quality of the light filtering through the gap in the middle of the curtains, which had been drawn rather hurriedly the night before and, consequently, a bit carelessly. The corners of Sherlock's mouth curled in recollection of the reason for that haste as he squinted down at the bedroom floor and the collection of discarded clothing scattered around, there.

'Daddy, are you in your Mind Palace?' Freddie asked, bringing Sherlock out of his reverie.

'No, Freddie, I'm listening. What time is it?' he wondered aloud.

'It's morning time, Daddy. De birds are singing weally loud and de sun is shining weally bwight. Dey woke me up,' Freddie explained.

'So I see,' his father replied then raised his left hand from its resting place, on his wife's hip, and looked at the luminous dial of his watch.

Half past five, a.m.

'Oh, god,' he groaned. Letting his hand flop onto the bed, he turned his head towards the four year old.

'It's very early, Freddie,' he explained. 'Nowhere near breakfast time.' Freddie's concept of time was entirely based on the relative proximity of mealtimes.

At the revelation that breakfast was not imminent, his face fell.

'Here, do you want to come into bed?' Sherlock offered, with a sympathetic smile, and Freddie's broad grin was all the answer he needed. Lifting the corner of the duvet, Sherlock invited Freddie to crawl into bed with him, which he did without any hesitation. As he curled into the crook of his father's arm, Freddie exclaimed,

'Daddy, where are your PJ's? Did you forget to put dem on?'

'Er…it was a bit hot, last night,' was the best Sherlock could come up with at such short notice. The stifled snort from Molly's side of the bed alerted Freddie to the fact that his mother was also awake.

'Good morning, Mummy!' he squealed and launched himself across his father's body, narrowly avoiding heeling him in the groin in his haste to get to Molly who, unable to feign sleep any longer, rolled onto her back and put an arm around her son, in return for a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

'Mummy, was you hot, too?' Freddie asked, ingenuously.

'Oh, yes, darling, very hot,' Molly giggled.

 _And steamy_ , thought Sherlock. And, since he was wide awake now, he decided he should perhaps answer a rather pressing call of nature, so he slipped lithely out of bed and strolled to the en suite bathroom, giving his wife and son a spectacular view of his naked rear.

'Chuck me my nightie, would you, sweetie?' Molly called after him. He unhooked Molly's night dress from the back of the bathroom door, palmed it into a ball and tossed it across the room, where it landed squarely on her head, spot on target.

'Toad!' she squawked, scrabbling to remove the garment. Sherlock winked at Freddie, who chuckled, throatily.

Closing the bathroom door, Sherlock used the lavatory then crossed to the basin to wash his hands. Gazing at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he studied his visage. Those eyebrows – always a little on the rampant side – seemed to be growing more bushy with age and the crow's feet seemed more pronounced by the day. He rubbed his stubbly chin and inspected his reflection more intently. Had his hair line receded from where it used to be, he wondered, or had he escaped the Male Pattern Baldness gene, unlike his brother, Mycroft.

Sherlock leaned in to the mirror for a closer look and gave a sudden gasp. What was that? A grey hair! Pincering his finger and thumb, he grasped the offending grey follicle and gave a sharp tug. It came free from his scalp and he held it up to the light to inspect the curling silvery thread.

 _Oh, God_ , he thought, _I'm on the slippery slope_.

Flicking the hair into the bathroom bin, Sherlock retrieved his PJ' bottoms form the back of the bathroom door, pulled them on and returned to the bedroom, where Molly and Freddie were enjoying a cuddle under the covers. He was about to slip in beside them when Molly said, in a wheedling tone,

'Cup of tea, Daddy…seeing as how you're up, anyway?'

Sherlock could not help but feel that he had been somehow manoeuvred into this position – out-manoeuvred, in fact – so, with an exaggerated eye roll, he diverted to the bedroom door and descended to the kitchen to put on the kettle.

'So, Freddie,' Molly began, 'what are we doing today?'

'We is goin' on a picnic!' Freddie chortled, with delight.

ooOoo

The Hooper-Holmes family were habitual early risers so it wasn't long before Violet made her presence felt, hollering from the Nursery. Sherlock and Molly eyed each other over the rims of their respective tea mugs but Freddie pre-empted a stand-off.

'I can get Ada!' he declared, with a perky grin, so reminiscent of his mother.

'Yes, OK,' Sherlock agreed, 'but be careful lowering the cot side.'

'I knows how to do it,' Freddie assured his parents and, wriggling off the bottom of the bed, he padded across the landing to rescue his sister from her incarceration. As he opened the Nursery door, Molly and Sherlock heard Violet's shriek of delight, at the sight of her favourite brother, and Freddie's answering whoop. Both parents listened intently to the sound of the cot side being lowered and then a grunt and a thump as Freddie wrapped his arms around his sister's waist and lifted her down to the bedroom floor.

'Hode my hand, Ada,' Freddie insisted, and led the toddler back across the landing to the master bedroom. Only when they were past the danger point, at the head of the stairs, did Freddie release Violet's hand so she could waddle over to the big double bed.

At fifteen months, Violet was at the tottering stage – or 'Chocks away' as Sherlock called it, in deference to the aeroplane arms. Her breaking system was a little unreliable but, on this occasion, the bed served as an excellent buffer. She crashed into it and sat down with a bump.

Sherlock leaned over the side of the bed and grinned at his daughter.

'Everything alright down there?' he asked, sardonically.

'Dad-dee, nyidee beh!' Violet demanded, raising her arms in the air.

'Yus, mi'lady!' Sherlock replied, in his best Parker impersonation, reaching down to hook Violet up onto the bed.

'Hello, little Miss Sunshine!' Molly cooed and was rewarded with a beaming smile from the resident princess. Violet's eyes were aquamarine in the morning light and her hair a thick mane of rich golden curls that seemed to glow, like the sun, hence the nick name. Sitting on the bed between her parents and Freddie, who had climbed up on his mother's side, Violet was exactly where she loved to be – at the centre of everyone's Universe.

'Is it somebody's birthday?' came a groggy voice from the doorway. William stood leaning against the door jam, rubbing at his eyes with one hand, his Snoopy toy dangling from the other.

'No, but do come and join in, Will,' Sherlock invited his first born. 'Sorry, old chap, did we wake you?'

'Yes,' William replied, grumpily, as he climbed up onto the bed and crawled into Sherlock's lap, wrapping one arm round his father's neck and cuddling into his chest. 'You're all very loud,' he added, 'and it's only six o'clock.'

Sherlock put a comforting arm round William and gave the rest of the family a censuring glare.

'Uh-oh, we's in twouble!' Freddie whispered, loudly, with an impish grin.

'Sorry we woke you, William, but if we're going to have this family picnic today, we need to be up and at 'em!' Molly exclaimed, reaching over to give her son a playful pat on the back.

ooOoo

 **This was only going to be a one-shot...but it grew!**


	2. Quiet Sunday Chapter Two

**This story is a Sherlolly/Parentlock Fluff-fest, for those who like that sort of thing!**

 **Chapter Two**

Sherlock and William were on Breakfast Duty, while Molly enjoyed a pamper session, which included exfoliation, epilation and moisturising, a long, luxurious shower with hair wash and wax conditioner, and a full facial. This was Molly's regular Sunday morning treat. Every other day of the week, her morning routine was so rushed, it was a real treat to be able to take her time and spoil herself a little, one day out of seven. And, on this occasion, she added a pedicure, for good measure.

Downstairs, Sherlock, having set the wedding present coffee maker to percolate, was grilling bacon, poaching eggs and organising his troops. William was in charge of the toaster – feeding it slices of bread and slotting the end product into the toast rack, as it popped up, ready. Freddie was the Cereal Monitor – placing the canisters, variously containing muesli, Weetabix and cornflakes, on the table and retrieving the milk and juice cartons from the fridge. Violet, from the vantage point of her highchair, was supervising the whole operation and making sure no detail was overlooked.

Sadly, on this occasion, she felt that the service was somewhat lacking. Pointing imperiously at the fruit bowl on the countertop, she demanded,

'Na-na-na!'

'Freddie, could you give Violet a banana, please?' Sherlock interpreted.

''Course!' Freddie exclaimed and reached up, on tip-toe, to fish a ripe banana from the bowl, peeled it carefully and broke it in half before placing both halves on the highchair tray, in front of his sister.

'There you is, Ada!' he chirped.

'Tan-tu!' Violet replied, grasping one half of the banana in both hands and chomping on it in a most unladylike manner.

'Willumwillumwillum,' she gurgled between chews.

'Why does she keep saying my name?' William asked, as he spooned cornflakes and milk into his mouth and munched, thoughtfully.

'I think she just likes the sound,' Sherlock suggested.

'Why?' William asked.

'She's at that stage where she's playing around with sounds, practicing how to make them,' Sherlock elaborated, 'like Freddie did, when he was her age, remember?'

William frowned. He remembered Freddie saying 'Diddlediddlediddle' rather a lot. He wondered if that was the same thing.

'Say my name, Ada!' Freddie cried, through a mouthful of Weetabix, spraying soggy cereal everywhere. 'Fweddiefweddiefweddie!'

'Freddie, close your mouth when you're eating, please,' Sherlock cautioned, in deference to William's look of horror.

'Weddeeweddee! Weddeeweddee!' Violet obliged.

Freddie gave a whoop of delight – thankfully with an empty mouth - and he and Violet chortled, in unison, as though this was the most fun either of them had ever had.

'Alright, who wants bacon and egg?' Sherlock piped up, bringing everyone's attention back to the important subject of breakfast.

'Me! Me!' the two boys squealed.

'Bee! Bee!' Violet squealed, too.

ooOoo

By the time Molly joined them in the kitchen, all buffed and fluffed, breakfast was over all bar the shouting. William was loading the dishwasher as Freddie passed him the dirty crocks and cutlery. Sherlock was wiping down everywhere and Violet, once again, was overseeing the whole operation.

'Oh, am I too late?' Molly sniffed.

'Yours is keeping warm under the grill,' Sherlock assured her, although she knew that already.

'Come along, chaps,' he addressed the boys, plucking Violet out of the high chair, and led the way back upstairs to perform their morning ablutions and get dressed.

Molly placed her cooked breakfast on the table, helped herself to a mug of fresh coffee and sat down to her peaceful, relaxed breakfast, flipping through the Sunday Supplements as she munched on her eggs and bacon and buttered toast, listening to the sounds of child wrangling that occasionally drifted down the stairs.

Despite Freddie's most valiant efforts to dress himself, it invariably resulted in items of clothing being put on inside out, back to front or in the wrong order and Sherlock's gentle corrections frequently brought a smile to Molly's face and a tear to her eye. Not all their children could be geniuses, like their father, and what Freddie lacked in pure intellect, he more than made up for in charm and good nature.

For all his faults – and, he assured her, there were many – Sherlock was definitely a hands-on father. He derived as much pleasure from their Sunday morning arrangement as she did. As he was first to point out, he enjoyed the luxury of leisurely grooming every other day of the week, after the rest of the family had gone off for the day. And once the children were scrubbed up, they would come downstairs – William straight out to tend his bees and Freddie and Violet to play together in the dining room – Molly would be back on parent duty and Sherlock would have time to prepare himself for the day ahead, in peace.

Today, though, was special. The family was off on an adventure, a day out in Epping Forest.

Molly had organised the picnic and packed the edibles into Tupperware containers the night before. It was all in the fridge, waiting to be transferred to Sherlock's rucksack. The rucksack was a bit of a private joke between Molly and her husband. It was the very one Sherlock had bought in Carlisle, all those years ago, when he was on the run from St Hugh's, the specialist government PTSD facility. After its safe return by the Cumbrian police, the rucksack had been stuffed into a cupboard and forgotten, only to surface during the move to Firs Lodge, when its utility as a family asset was realised. It was just perfect for days out with the children

Needless to say, Sherlock would not be carrying the rucksack. That was Molly's job. There were certain things he just would not do – pushing the baby buggy was one, carrying a rucksack was another. It just did not go with his image. He would be in charge of carrying Violet, in her baby backpack. His vanity did stretch to that. Violet loved her carrier, especially when Daddy was wearing it, because it gave her an elevated view of the world and seemed to attract the attention of lots of little old ladies, who invariably stopped them for a chat, which suited Violet's agenda perfectly – though Daddy's not so much.

As well as the baby and the rucksack, they would be taking William's mountain bike and Freddie's balance bike, so the boys could do a little exploring, as long as they kept to the cycle tracks and didn't go off piste.

And stayed within hailing distance.

And didn't run down any pedestrians.

Those were the only restrictions.

Due to their exceptionally early start, by eight o'clock, the family was all ready to set off on their beano. Sherlock summoned a cab to take them on the first leg of the journey, to Liverpool Street Station, where they would catch the London Overground train to Chingford Station, which was a short walk from Epping Forest.

The children loved travelling by train, especially Freddie, the Thomas the Tank Engine aficionado, who derived an inordinate amount of pleasure from checking off the stations as they passed through, watching the other trains flash by, heading in the opposite direction and engaging his fellow passengers in friendly and informative conversations as to the type and class of the various engines. The ride to Chingford would take forty-five minutes, so plenty of time to make new friends.

The cab arrived, the family piled in and the adventure began.

ooOoo


	3. Quiet Sunday Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

Sitting in the back of the cab with William on the seat between them and Freddie and Violet on their respective laps, the bikes and the backpacks on the floor in front of them, Sherlock leaned over towards Molly and whispered in her ear,

'You've done something different with your hair. It suits you better that way.'

Molly had plaited her hair in a single braid which fell over her right shoulder.

Molly gave a little laugh. She knew exactly what he was alluding to. The very first time she had fashioned her hair in a similar way, Sherlock had complemented her on the new style in order to wheedle his way into her good books, so she would pull two bodies out of cold storage for him to look at. Of course, at the time, she was wise to his manipulative tricks but she had pulled the bodies out anyway, because the DI on the case – what was his name now? She couldn't remember – had put in a formal request. But there was no need to share that little fact with Sherlock, either then or now.

'What?' Molly asked, with a faux frown.

'The style - it's usually parted in the middle,' he added.

'Yes, well...' Molly replied, looking down, coyly.

'Suits you better this way,' he murmured, with a hint of a grin.

'Better than what?' she asked, drawing back to eyeball him.

'Better than nothing, actually,' he whispered. 'You are always beautiful.'

'Flattery will get you everywhere,' she giggled.

'I might hold you to that,' he replied, with a twitch of a smile.

'I might hold you to that, too,' she countered.

When the cab pulled up outside Liverpool Street Station, they all climbed out. Sherlock helped Molly on with the rucksack then hefted the baby backpack over one arm and Violet in the other, for the short walk to the train, and, with the boys pushing their bikes, the family proceeded into the station and over to the ticket machine. Sherlock had booked the tickets in advance so he just needed to collect them and they could make their way to the platform and board the train, which was already there, waiting for its allotted time to leave.

This early on a Sunday morning, the station and the train were relatively quiet and they found the last carriage was completely empty so they commandeered it. They stowed the bikes, the rucksack and the baby carrier and took their seats for the journey.

Freddie was so excited, he could barely sit still. He jiggled and wriggled and chattered away, commenting on every aspect of the environment, from the colours of the train livery to the pigeons strutting about on the platform.

'Daddy, why's that pigeon got no toes?'

Sherlock turned to look at the pigeon in question and, yes, one of its feet was just a stump. The other foot had all its toes but looked a bit swollen.

'Lots of urban pigeons lose their toes, Freddie,' he explained, 'sometimes their whole foot. Some people think it's caused by a bacterial infection, caught from standing in their own pooh. Others say it's down to them getting their feet tangled in cotton or wire or bits of plastic, left lying around by humans. And some people think it's caused by a hereditary gene or by an infestation of mites. It could be any of those things – or maybe all of them.'

'Does it hurt?' Freddie asked, frowning.

'Yes, I imagine it does,' Sherlock replied.

'Poor little pigeons,' Freddie said, his frown deepening.

'Life can be cruel sometimes, Freddie,' Sherlock agreed. 'But, look!' he added, pointing at the toeless bird. 'The pigeon's found a big piece of bread! He looks happy, now!'

Sure enough, the pigeon had discovered a large crust that someone had discarded under a bench and it was now pecking away at it, with relish.

'That's nice for him!' Freddie smiled and turned his attention to something else.

Molly and Sherlock exchanged a look of parental pride mixed with a little chagrin. Freddie had definitely inherited the empathy gene. He felt the pain of others most acutely but he also shared their joy.

William had his nose stuck in his latest favourite book. It too told a story of joy, disappointment, experimentation, discovery, destruction, devastation, and satisfaction and was based on manuscripts written by a man in Seventeenth Century Northumberland, set against the religious intolerance and political upheaval of that time, which encompassed plague, civil war and the execution of a king.

But mostly it was about 17th century beekeeping, detailing the experimental methods the man used to tend his bees. It was entitled 'The Earliest Record of Beekeeping in Northern England'*. It had been loaned to William by his beekeeper mentor, Mr Hedges, a member of the local group of apiarists, and William could not get enough of it.

Violet, sitting in Molly's lap, shared her attention between engaging with Freddie's chatter and playing 'Wot dat' with anyone who would oblige. 'Wot dat' had been one of Freddie's favourite games when he was about Violet's age, as it was an excellent way to pass the time whilst travelling. There was always something new to point at!

At long last, the train engine changed its pitch and the carriage began to move forward. Freddie and Violet cheered and clapped, whilst William merely glanced up, momentarily, to see what the fuss was about, then returned to his book.

ooOoo

As the train made its way northwards, stopping at stations along the way – Bethnal Green, Hackney Downs, Clapton, St James Street - people got into the carriage and took their seats, giving both Freddie and Violet an opportunity to engage them in social intercourse. Some of their fellow travellers were more than happy to chat, others smiled politely and turned away, some scowled and huffed and moved to another carriage. None of this fazed the Hooper-Holmes children. It all added to the fun of the outing.

At Waltham Central, a man got on the train and sat directly opposite the family.

'Mummy,' Freddie remarked, in a very loud stage whisper, pointing less than surreptitiously at the person, 'that man's got no hair on his head but lots on his face!'

Several of the other passengers burst out laughing at that all too accurate observation but, fortunately, one of them was the bald, bearded man, himself.

'I am so sorry!' Molly apologised, blushing with embarrassment at her son's faux pas.

'Oh, that is OK, madam,' the man assured her, smiling broadly. 'The little boy is quite right! I do have lots of hair on my face but none on my head! Allah is very wise, you see. He knows that I can wear a hat to keep my head warm but my face needs its own protection!'

Freddie found that to be a very satisfactory explanation and he slithered off his seat to cross over and offer the man a high five, which he graciously returned.

Wood Street and Highams Park stations came and went but, at last, the train pulled in at Chingford, the end of the line, and everyone disembarked. Standing on the platform, Sherlock hefted the baby back pack onto his shoulders then crouched down as Molly threaded Violet into the carrier and made sure she was secure and comfortable. Then Sherlock helped Molly back on with the rucksack, the boys each took possession of their bikes and the family set off on the walk – of eight hundred steps, according to the site map - towards The View Visitors Centre.

ooOoo

 **Quotes from The Blind Banker (BBC Sherlock S1 E2) belong to Mofftiss, of course. I just borrowed them. :)**

Ref:* 'The Earliest Record of Beekeeping in Northern England' by Robert J. Hawker Northern Bee Books March 2015


	4. Quiet Sunday Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

By the time they reached the woodland path, right alongside Queen Elizabeth I's Hunting Lodge, the boys were raring to jump on their bikes and be off, having pushed them all the way from the station. It was still quite early – well before ten o'clock – so the visitors' centre wasn't yet open and, anyway, the children were far too excited and exuberant to be up to browsing the museum exhibits or looking at brochures. That treat would wait for the end of the day, when some of that kinetic energy had been burned off and their mood was more conducive to data processing.

There weren't many people about, just the odd dog-walker, so the boys had the path almost to themselves. William took off down the woodland way, pumping the pedals with both legs, delighted to be out in the open and able to build up some speed in a relatively straight line, rather than round in circles, as he was obliged to do in the park or their garden.

Freddie hadn't quite mastered pedals but had graduated to William's old balance bike and was getting the hang of two-wheeled mobility, bit by bit. Compared with William, who had a remarkable sense of balance from a very early age, Freddie was a bit clumsy and unco-ordinated. Molly put that down to the fact that he seemed to have inherited a disproportionate percentage of her genes compared to Sherlock's. She had always been quite clumsy as a child – hence the disastrous debacle of the ballet lessons. Her mother had never quite forgiven her for being like a heifer in a tu-tu.

'Wait for me, William!' Freddie yelled, to his brother's rapidly retreating back, as he scooted along in William's wake. It was slow going until he came to the brow of a hill but then it was plain sailing all the way to the bottom, with a high-pitched 'Wheeeee!' that carried for miles and made Violet chuckle and jump up and down in the baby backpack.

'Wotdat?' Violet asked, during a brief hiatus between 'Wheee's, as Freddie trundled his balance bike up another rise.

'What's what, Violet?' Sherlock asked back

'Dat hoo-hoo!' Violet replied, waving her finger all around but pointing at nothing in particular.

Sherlock had to think for a moment about what she could be referring to but then he heard the 'hoo-hoo' sound and the penny dropped.

'Oh, that's a bird singing,' he exclaimed.

They had birds in their garden at home but the variety and volume was somewhat muted. Here in the forest, they were surrounded on all sides by a cacophony of birdsong.

'That one,' Sherlock said, cocking his head on one side and pointing toward the source of that particular song, 'is a chiff-chaff. Can you hear it? 'Chiff-caff, chiff-chaff, chiff-chaff!' That bird says its name!'

Violet listened and then smiled slowly and repeated,

'Yiff-yaff, yiff-yaff, yiff-yaff!' and laughed, heartily.

'Listen to that one!' Sherlock drew her attention to another song – nearer and much louder than the chiff-chaff. It was a shrill, raucous, explosive song that out-shouted all the other birds in the woodland.

'That's a wren, Violet! It's a tiny little bird, one of the smallest in the wood but it has a really loud, demanding voice,' he explained.

'A bit like you, Violet,' Molly added, with an affectionate giggle.

Violet laughed, too, then stopped to listen to another bird and asked,

'Wot dat, Daddee?'

Sherlock pinpointed the sound he thought Violet was attending to. It was a trilling, musical, almost wistful song, full of expression and sweet melody.

'That's a robin,' Sherlock explained. 'He's the bird with the bright red breast, over there, look!' he added, pointing to the little bird sitting on an exposed twig, near the top of a tree just across the path. He was singing his heart out.

'Wubby bird!' Violet cooed.

'Yes, he's a lovely bird,' Molly agreed.

'Though exceedingly aggressive toward members of its own species,' Sherlock added, somewhat killing the mood. 'They fly at windows and break their necks because they mistake their own reflection for another bird.'

'Thank you, Daddy, for that dear little pearl of wisdom!' Molly scolded, gently.

He avoided her gaze and bit his lip, in a manner that made her picture him outside his headmaster's study, about to reprimanded for corpsing in chapel, but utterly unrepentant. She gave him a poke in the ribs with her elbow and they walked on, round Connaught Water and over Palmer's Bridge, along the side of Epping New Road, through Fairmead Bottom and past Fairmead Pond, until they approached the Tea Hut.

'Fancy a cuppa?' Sherlock asked.

'Don't mind if I do,' Molly replied. 'Boys!' she called out to William and Freddie who were just a few yards ahead of them, since they were so close to the road. 'Would you like a drink?'

'Yes, please, Mummy!' they chorused back, so the charabang pulled into the car park and found a vacant spot to bivouac whilst refreshments were taken.

The next leg of the journey took them along the tarmac road for about another hundred yards before they turned right on to a wide bridleway, which undulated through high woods and pollarded beech trees for about half a mile. Horses and riders had precedence on the bridleway, so the boys had to be careful to look out for any and give way to them. Fortunately, they were few and far between this particular Sunday morning. After half a mile, they turned left onto the path which led into Epping Forest Conservation Centre, enclosed by a wooden fence.

The Conservation Centre was a purpose build field study centre where various courses and school visits could be attended. It stood on the edge of a six acre site which incorporated a whole range of different types of habitat, from ponds, through grass land to woodland. Within the confines of the centre itself were a variety of special gardens – a sensory one, full of fragrant, tactile and colourful flower and foliage plants; a butterfly garden, stocked with all the sorts of plants that butterflies would find attractive; a bird garden, full of bird feeders, nesting habitats and a gigantic bird table which, when the centre was open - today it was not - was spread with food to attract a wide variety of the forest's bird population.

The family spent a good half hour exploring all the delights that the different gardens had to offer. William was particularly keen to investigate the log pile for evidence of stag beetle larvae and other creepy-crawlies. Freddie spent his time wandering around the sensory garden, stroking the foliage to release the delicious aromas and sniffing the flowers. Violet was liberated from her back pack so she could have a wander. She made a beeline for the butterfly garden and laughed with delight at the Painted Ladies, Cabbage Whites, Peacock and Tortoiseshell butterflies, all flitting about. One even landed on her shoulder for a brief second but quickly departed when she tried to grab it in her pudgy fist.

Sherlock found a wasps' nest, an intricate paper construction made from chewed bark. He had a bit of a love-hate relationship with wasps. He found them utterly fascinating and infinitely admirable but, because they were the enemies of bees, he could not warm to them.

Molly trailed after Violet, just to keep her from harm's way, wearing a secret smile at the boffin behaviour of the other family members, from the youngest to the very oldest, and marvelled at her own good fortune for being part of their world.

After thirty minutes or so, the family reassembled and prepared to take the next leg of their journey, onwards, ever onwards, past the Kings Head pub and Paul's Nursery, under the tall trees to the tarmac road and on to the isolated location of High Beech churchyard, at the Church in the Woods, where they planned to have their picnic.

ooOoo

 **Acknowledgements to the Epping Forest website. It's an absolute mine of information!**

 **And if anyone is tempted to visit Epping Forest, I can't recommend it enough!**


	5. Quiet Sunday Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

On reaching the churchyard, the Hooper-Holmes family found a shady spot, under a broad oak tree, and set about their picnic. Unshouldering the ruck sack, Molly stretched and windmilled her arms, to relieve the stiffness that had resulted from carrying the load thus far. The good news was that it would be a lot lighter when she put it back on, as they would have consumed most of its contents.

Molly unfastened the top of the rucksack and extracted the rolled up tartan picnic blanket that had been stowed under the cover flap. Having spread the blanket on the ground, she began to unpack the Tupperware boxes and plastic beakers and spread them out in the middle of the rug, so the family could all sit round the edge. Then she loosened all the lids on the boxes and invited everyone to tuck in.

Sherlock sat cross-legged next to the trunk of the tree, with Violet in his lap, so he could supervise her repast. Freddie sat next to him and Molly next again, with William on her other side, so as to shield him from the less attractive excesses of Violet's and Freddie's eating habits – although Freddie was a lot cleaner when he didn't have to contend with a knife, or spoon, and fork.

The meal itself accommodated everyone's tastes – cheese and ham sandwiches on wholemeal bread, salmon and cucumber on white, carrot and celery chopped into sticks and florets of broccoli, with a pot of cream cheese for dipping, chipolata sausages and slices of Melton Mowbray pork pie, for the main course; fresh strawberries, green and black grapes, slices of melon, bananas and apples for desert; and a flask of iced water to wash it all down. Conversation reduced to a minimum whilst the family tucked into their al fresco lunch. The only sound that disturbed the peace was the singing of birds and the distant drone of an aeroplane, high above, in the clear, blue sky.

When everyone had eaten their fill, Molly cleared the leftovers back into the Tupperware boxes – lids on to deter ants - and put them to one side, in case anyone fancied seconds a bit later on, then the family sat on the rug, for a post-prandial rest, to allow their food to digest properly before continuing on with their walk in the woods. William took out his book about bee-keeping and entertained them by reading extracts – which was quite hilarious since some of it was written in a Northumbrian dialect which William found understandably hard to pronounce.

Freddie amused both himself and Violet with a revival of the game 'Wot Dat', combined with his own version of 'I Spy' which was made all the trickier by the fact that Freddie could not really spell so some of the initial letters had to be taken with a large pinch of salt and a certain amount of pure guesswork. The game had been in play for about ten minutes when Violet pointed toward a group of bushes, a few yards away and said,

'Wot dat?'

Everyone looked in the direction she indicated and tried to figure out what exactly had caught her attention.

'It's a bush, Ada!' Freddie announced.

'No, dat!' Violet repeated.

'That's a song thrush,' Sherlock ventured, thinking she might be referring to something she could hear rather than something she could see.

'Nooooo!' she wailed, and pointed even more vehemently. 'Wot dat dere?'

Everyone turned to look where Violet was pointing and, suddenly, Sherlock spotted it.

Under the bush, hidden from all but the sharpest of eyes, was a dark shape surrounding two gleaming points of light.

'It's an animal,' Sherlock murmured, quietly.

'Where? Where?' Freddie cried but Sherlock shushed him.

'Quietly, Freddie, we don't want to scare it. I think it might be hurt.' He couldn't think of any other reason why a presumably wild animal had ventured so close to a noisy family yet endeavoured to remain hidden. It seemed like the logical answer.

'Oh, can we help it?' Freddie asked, his face falling in sympathy with the stricken creature.

'I don't know if it will let us near it,' Molly replied, pulling Freddie in to her side.

'If it's too ill or too injured to hunt, it might be hungry,' William suggested. 'Maybe we could give it some food?'

'We might be able to tempt it out into the open,' Sherlock agreed. 'Then at least we could see if was hurt.'

He reached for the storage boxes and selected the one with the chipolata sausages and the one with the crudités. It made sense to cover all bases, since they didn't know what sort of animal it was, at this point. Opening the boxes and taking out a selection from each, Sherlock gently tossed a sausage and a carrot stick towards the bushes. They landed about half way between the family and the animal's hiding place.

The points of light, which were the creature's eyes reflecting the sunlight, moved to look at the place where the food had landed but, apart from that, there was no response.

'That might be too far,' Sherlock surmised. 'I'll throw some closer.'

He tossed another sausage and a broccoli floret which, this time, landed about a metre from the bushes. The animal edged forward an inch or two but still did not break cover.

'OK,' Sherlock muttered and threw again. This time, the food dropt just a few inches away from the animal's nose and, to everyone's contained delight, it stretched forward and picked up the sausage then retreated back into the shadows and gobbled down the titbit.

'So far so good,' Sherlock said and, whilst the rest of the family – even Violet – looked on with bated breath, he tossed some more tasty morsels just out of the animal's reach.

Having taken the first step and gained the reward for its bravery, the animal decided that the risk was one worth taking and crept out from under the bush.

It was a bundle of reddish brown fur, all matted and dirty, with leaves, twigs and dust mixed in with the hair.

'What is it?' Molly asked. 'Is it a fox?'

'No,' Sherlock replied. 'It's a puppy.'

As the frightened puppy crept warily towards the scattered food, it shot nervous glances in the direction of the family. But such was its desperation, the need for food outweighed its fear of the humans and it sniffed out every offering, gobbling them down, greedily.

Sherlock gently tossed some more food, laying a trail to draw the little beast closer and closer. At about three metres away, it hesitated, torn between its hunger – now partly sated – and its obvious distrust.

Sherlock lay down, full length, on the grass and stretched out his arm, holding a fat sausage between his fingers. The puppy looked at the man, then turned its head to look back at the bushes, then looked at the sausage and made its decision. It ran forward and grabbed at the sausage in Sherlock's hand but, with lightning reflexes, Sherlock's other hand shot out and scooped the puppy up off the ground.

The terrified animal wriggled and shrieked and tried to bite the hand that had captured it but Sherlock rolled onto his back, sat up and held the poor little creature to his chest, soothing and calming it with gentle strokes and shushing sounds. Little by little, the puppy ceased to struggle and to yelp and Sherlock felt its heart – pounding rapidly against his ribs – begin to ease.

'William, get me another sausage,' he whispered and William did as he was asked, offering the food slowly so as not to panic the animal again. Sherlock took the sausage from his son and held it in front of the puppy's nose. It sniffed the offering then opened its mouth and took it, chewing it quickly and swallowing it down.

'Would he like a dwink?' Freddie whispered.

'He might,' Molly replied.

Freddie picked up one of the empty food containers and the flask, poured some water and handed the container to his father, who in turn offered it to the dog. After a moment's hesitation, the puppy began to lap at the water, clearly as thirsty as it had been hungry. Having finished up all but the last few drops of ice cold liquid, the puppy turned its soft brown eyes toward Sherlock and, extending its little pink tongue, licked his hand.

'Daddy,' said William, softly. 'Can we keep him?'

ooOoo

 **Rest assured, no animals were harmed in the writing of this chapter!**


	6. Quiet Sunday Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

'Well, one thing's for certain, we can't leave him here,' Sherlock declared, looking down at the bundle of matted fur in his arms.

The children's faces all lit up.

'But that doesn't mean we can keep him,' Molly cautioned.

'Awwww…' William and Freddie keened.

'No?' Sherlock gave her the same look as the boys.

'No, Sherlock!' Molly insisted. 'He must belong to somebody. They might be out looking for him, right now!'

'Well, they can't be looking very hard,' Sherlock huffed.

'Perhaps not,' Molly agreed, 'but we must at least try to find out who his owners are.'

'How, Mummy?' Freddie asked.

'We could put an advert in the paper,' William suggested, 'or make some of those fly posters that people put on lamp posts, about lost cats…'

'We can start by taking him to a vet and having him scanned, to see if he's micro chipped,' Molly added.

'There won't be many vets open on a Sunday,' Sherlock grinned.

'Sherlock! You're as bad as the children!' Molly scolded, in exasperation.

'I'm just stating the obvious,' he replied, utterly unrepentant.

During this exchange, the puppy – clearly exhausted from its recent experiences – had dozed off, its head lolling over Sherlock's arm. The children took this opportunity to creep forward for a closer look at the new 'temporary' addition to the family.

'What sort of dog is he?' William asked.

'I think he's a Redbeard,'' Sherlock murmured, distractedly.

'A redbeard? Molly asked. 'What sort of dog is that?'

'Oh…er…erm...a-an Irish Setter,' Sherlock stammered, looking distinctly embarrassed.

'Why do you call them wedbeards, Daddy?' Freddie was curious to know.

Sherlock seemed reluctant to answer, at first, but the intense look of curiosity in Freddie's eyes overcame his reticence and he said,

'When I was a boy – about your age, Freddie – I was given a dog like this, an Irish Setter. I called him Redbeard.'

'You never told me that,' Molly said, gently, sensing a deep-seated pain in her husband's voice as he said the name of his dog.

'No,' he replied, simply.

'What happened to your Redbeard?' William asked, also aware that his father's demeanour had changed - become rather introverted and closed off.

'Maybe Daddy doesn't want to talk about it right now, William,' Molly said, quietly, stroking her son's arm.

Sherlock pursed his lips, his brow furrowing, as he looked down at the sleeping puppy.

'He died, Will,' he said at last.

'Oh…' Freddie groaned.

'But I expect he was very old by then,' Molly exclaimed, brightly, as all the children looked about to burst into tears.

'Well…' Sherlock began.

'Yes, very old,' Molly confirmed and patted her husband's knee, giving him a sympathetic smile. She guessed that there was another of Sherlock's terrible childhood memories attached to the death of his dog and she would wheedle it out of him later, when they were alone, so that he could perhaps exorcise it from his mind but, right now, she needed to lighten the mood.

'Ok! That's settled, then. We'll take him home with us and, tomorrow, Daddy can take him to the vet and get him scanned. And we can maybe call the local police station and see if anyone has reported a missing Irish Setter puppy. How about that?' she said, with a bright smile.

'A very sound solution!' Sherlock agreed. 'And if it turns out that he doesn't belong to anybody…?'

Four pairs of pleading eyes turned on Molly but she had to be the voice of reason.

'Look, we're getting ahead of ourselves. We must do what we can to find his rightful owners. If it should turn out that he doesn't belong to anyone, we'll still have to consider all the possible repercussions of bringing a puppy into the household.'

'What are weeper cushions, Mummy? Do puppies like them?'

There was a moment's pause, while Molly and Sherlock looked first at Freddie then at each other, then burst out laughing. The children all joined in.

'Yes, Freddie, puppies just love reaper cushions!' Sherlock declared

'Yay!' Freddie and William exclaimed, high fiving one another.

'Ey!' Violet squealed and held up her hand. Freddie and William both obliged.

The puppy snoozed on.

ooOoo

The picnic leftovers needed to be packed away, ready for the family to move on. Molly took care of that and, in the process, she dug out the old towel she always packed at the bottom of the ruck sack, in case of emergencies, and gave it to Sherlock to wrap around the puppy. As he did so, the beastie barely stirred, he was so tired. William was entrusted with holding the sleeping bundle while Sherlock donned the baby back pack and Molly fitted Violet into it. She then swung the ruck sack effortlessly onto her back. It was considerably lighter now that nearly all the food had been consumed.

Sherlock took back the puppy, William and Freddie retrieved their bikes and the family was off again. Leaving the churchyard behind, their next destination was the Centenary Walk but, first, they made a little detour so that Sherlock could introduce the boys to a centuries old puzzle. They walked along the tarmac road but stopped at the junction with the slip road that led towards High Beech Visitors' Centre. Standing at the junction, Sherlock called the boys to his side and pointed down the road.

'William, Freddie, look at the road. Is it going uphill or downhill?'

Both boys looked carefully at the roadway.

'I think it's going downhill, Daddy,' William replied.

'Yes, downhill, Daddy,' Freddie agreed.

'OK,' Sherlock replied. Then he turned and pointed along the slip road, in the direction of the Visitors' Centre.

'What about this road? Is it uphill or downhill?'

The boys gave it much consideration then both agreed it was going uphill.

'Alright,' Sherlock went on, 'position your bikes just here' – he pointed in the direction of High Beech. The boys lined up their bikes at the bottom of the rise. 'Now, if you wheel your bikes forward and take your feet off the ground – no peddling, William – what do you think will happen?'

'We'll roll backwards,' William stated.

'I will fall over!' Freddie declared, to everyone's amusement.

'OK, Freddie, if you wobble, you can put your feet down but no scooting, OK?'

Freddie nodded, with a grin. Both boys were keen to get on with this experiment and see what would happen so Sherlock gave them the nod and they both rolled forwards and took their feet off the ground. At first, nothing much happened, except for Freddie wobbling, but he touched his toes to the tarmac just to steady himself. Then, gradually, the bikes began to pick up speed and move – but not backwards. They began to roll up the hill!

'What…?' William gasped. 'Daddy! What's happening?'

Molly and Sherlock smiled broadly as the two bikes – and their boys – moved off and rolled all the way up to the top of the hill, with William and Freddie shouting 'Wheeeeeee!' in unison. When they reached the 'top', they turned and trundled their bikes back 'down' the road to their parents.

'Daddy! Daddy!' William shouted, pumping his pedals, laboriously. 'We rolled uphill! How did that happen?'

Sherlock grinned at his sons and their awe-struck expressions, as Molly took up the narrative.

'Well, this is Hangman's Hill,' she began, in a spooky voice. 'Many years ago, so the story goes, an innocent man was hanged here for a crime he did not commit. And, ever since then, people are drawn up the hill – so they say – towards the hanging tree, by the spirit of the innocent man, using the hangman's invisible rope!' She looked around at her children's startled faces.

'Mummy, is that true?' Freddie gasped.

'No, of course it isn't,' Sherlock declared, breaking the tension completely. 'It's a gravity hill.'

'What's one of those?' William asked, rather relieved - though Freddie looked quite disappointed.

'Well, it's an optical illusion,' Sherlock explained.

Pointing 'up' the slip road, he said,

'That is really downhill but, because of the surrounding woodland, the angles of the tree trunks and so forth, it looks as though it goes uphill. And that way' – pointing down the way they would be walking next – 'is really uphill but looks like it goes down.'

'Can we try it?' William asked, excitedly.

'Yes, of course,' Sherlock replied.

The boys lined up again, this time facing in the direction of the Centenary Walk, took their feet off the ground and...rolled backwards.

'Oh, wow!' Freddie exclaimed.

'Wow, in deed,' Sherlock agreed, with an approving nod, as the family set off up the rise together. At the top, they turned left, downhill – really downhill this time – and, after about 300 yards, turned right on to a path that passed between tall pollarded trees.

This was the Centenary Walk, which took them through thick woodland for about half a mile to a small brook. They continued downhill with the brook babbling away to their right, in the bottom of its deep cut, for another 400 yards until they came to a wide grassy cross path, where they went left.

After all the excitement of the day, Violet had dozed off in her baby carrier, her head resting between Sherlock's shoulders. Carrying the puppy was making his arms ache somewhat, even though the animal was not very heavy, so Molly took a turn and Sherlock shook and stretched his arms, to relax the tight muscles. Molly had to admit that the feel of the little warm body in her arms was very pleasant. But she quickly banished such thoughts from her head. One of them had to remain objective and it was fairly obvious that, on this occasion, it would not be Sherlock.

After about 300 yards, the family turned right on to the Green Ride bridleway. This was a popular ride, between North Long Hills and White House Plain, and at this time of the day it was quite busy with horses and riders as well as other walkers, so William and Freddie dismounted their bikes and pushed then, instead. They were both feeling quite tired now. It had been a long, busy and very exciting day, so they were happy to walk beside Mummy and Daddy, stealing covert glances, from time to time, at the still-slumbering puppy in Mummy's arms.

At the point where Green Ride crossed another path, the family carried on in the same direction, passing through Bury Wood until they came to another cross path, where they bore right, going uphill once more. Up ahead, they could see the group of buildings where their walk had begun – the café known as Butlers Retreat, Queen Elizabeth Hunting Lodge, the Premier Inn and The View Visitors' Centre.

In contrast to earlier in the day, all the facilities were now open and swarming with visitors. Molly and Sherlock exchanged a look then Molly said,

'Do you want to have a look round the Visitors' Centre, boys, or shall we go and catch the train home?'

'I think I'm too tired to look round the Visitors' Centre, Mummy,' Freddie replied and confirmed his statement with a big yawn.

'What about you, William?' Sherlock asked.

'I'd quite like to have a quick look, Daddy, if that's alright,' he said.

'Of course it's alright!' Molly replied. 'Daddy can stay out here' – she pointed to the grassy area in front of The View – 'with Freddie and Violet…'

'And Redbeard,' Sherlock added.

'…and the puppy,' Molly corrected, giving him a stern look, 'and I'll come in with you, Will. I'd like to get some of their brochures, for our Days Out file.'

So Sherlock found a convenient bench where he could wait with the two younger children whilst Molly and William went inside the Centre to have a browse. Freddie was sound asleep by the time they returned, laid across his father's lap. William was buzzing about the display of cattle brands that used to be used to mark the cattle that grazed the woodland. Nowadays, the cattle still grazed but were more humanely frieze marked with their owner's initials so that everyone knew which cattle belonged to whom.

Molly stuffed the brochures she had collected into the front pocket of the ruck sack, shouldered it once more, then took charge of the puppy – still snoring – Sherlock carried Freddie in his arms, as well as Violet on his back, and William took charge of both bikes, as they made their way to the station for a much-appreciated train ride back to town.

ooOoo

 **Hangman's Hill does exist and it is a gravity hill. If you get the chance, do go and have a look!**


	7. Quiet Sunday Chapter Seven

**Sorry folks, I had to put a bit of angst into this story! I just couldn't help myself! But it's all Ok in the end, I promise you.**

 **Thank you to everyone who has faved, followed or reviewed this story. You are all so very kind!**

 **Chapter Seven**

By the time the train arrived at Liverpool Street station, Freddie, Violet and the puppy were all wide awake and, during the journey, the family – and most especially the puppy – had consumed all of the picnic left-overs, leaving just the empty containers for Molly to carry in the rucksack. Having had a good sleep and with a full belly plus a whole load of new, attentive, adoring friends, the puppy seemed none the worst for his adventures. He was introduced to each of the family members, in turn, by Freddie, who felt it his duty to perform the necessary formalities as no one else appeared to have thought to do it.

'This is Daddy. He's vewy, vewy clever and catches lots of bad people.'

The puppy licked 'Daddy's' nose, enthusiastically.

'This is William. He's vewy, vewy clever, too, but doesn't show it off as much as Daddy does.'

'I don't show off!' Sherlock protested.

'Yes, you do,' Molly replied, 'but' – she leaned in to whisper –' _in a very adorable way_.'

'This is Ada. She's a girl and a bit bossy but I still love her.'

Violet giggled and tried to grab the puppy's ear but Sherlock managed to intercept her grasping hand, just in time.

'And this is Mummy. She takes care of evewybidy and goes to work to cut up dead people.'

'How-d'ya-do,' Molly said, shaking the puppy's paw.

'And I'm Fweddie,' he concluded but stopped there because he couldn't really think what he did.

'And he makes us all happy because he is such a sweetie,' Molly supplied.

'Am I, Mummy?' Freddie asked, looking surprised.

'Of course you are, silly!' Molly exclaimed and gave him a hug.

ooOoo

The train drew to a halt and the family organised themselves, stepped out onto the platform and made their way to the taxi rank where, as luck would have it, one of Sherlock's regular cabbies was at the front of the queue.

'Watch'a, Mr Holmes! Havin' a nice day out wi' the family, I see?' he chirped, cheerfully, as the Hooper-Holmes piled in and settled back in their seats.

'Yes, indeed,' Sherlock affirmed.

The ride home took no time at all, in the Sunday city traffic, and once inside the house, Molly went off to the kitchen with Violet, to unpack the rucksack and make some preparations for supper. Sherlock stowed the bikes in the understairs cupboard then took William and Freddie into the Utility Room to sort out the puppy.

Sherlock put the little beast down on the Utility Room floor so he could have a wander round and explore his surroundings. He trotted about, sniffing in all the nooks and crannies, then squatted in the middle of the floor and peed. William looked aghast at the little puddle left behind when the puppy trotted on.

'He's not going to pee everywhere, is he?' he said, wrinkling his nose.

'Uh-oh!' Freddie mugged. 'Mummy won't like that!'

'He's just not housetrained, yet,' Sherlock explained. 'He'll learn not to do that in the house, eventually – if we keep him,' he felt obliged to add, for the sake of propriety.

'How do you do that, Daddy, - house-train a puppy?' William asked, relieved to know that there was a solution to the problem.

'Well, first of all, you train them to pee and poo on a specific thing, like a newspaper,' Sherlock explained, as he used some kitchen roll and antibacterial spray to clean up the puppy puddle. 'Then, you move the newspaper – or whatever it is – closer to the outside door until the puppy learns to go to the door when it needs to pee or poo. And then, when it goes to the door, you let it out, so it goes to the toilet outside.'

'Oh, well, that sounds logical,' said William, with an approving nod.

Having cleaned up the mess, Sherlock scooped up the puppy who, having explored the utility room very thoroughly, was now standing in the middle of the group of humans, looking up at them, in anticipation – perhaps of more food.

'Let's get you cleaned up, you little rascal,' Sherlock said to the wriggling creature and stood him on the work top, where he held him in place with one hand whilst brushing at his dirty coat with an old hairbrush he'd found in a drawer. He had no idea what Molly used it for but it seemed just perfect for brushing twigs and dust from a puppy's fur.

In places, the fur was quite knotted, so Sherlock had to be careful not to hurt the animal whilst teasing out the knots, but eventually the coat seemed to be free of both twigs and knots and it was time for a bath.

Plonking the puppy back on the floor, where he shook vigorously and ran round in a big circle, as though celebrating being released from the torture of being groomed, Sherlock ran some lukewarm water into the Belfast sink then called the puppy to him by bending over, clapping his hands and saying 'Puppy!' in a high-pitched tone, which Freddie found hilarious.

The little scrap was hooked off the floor and plonked into the sink, where he stood shivering as Sherlock doused the dog's fur with water and applied some baby shampoo to his hand before rubbing it into the animal's coat, everywhere except his eyes and muzzle. The pup didn't seem to like this at first but then decided that being massaged by these giant but gentle hands was actually quite pleasant and he licked those hands appreciatively.

Once the beastie had been thoroughly rubbed and rinsed, Sherlock wrapped him in the old towel again and stood him on the work top to be dried. When most of the moisture had been removed, the puppy was plonked back on the floor once more and he shook even more vigorously and ran around the room again, leaving a trail of wet doggy footprints behind.

At this point, William and Freddie decided to join in, so both boys and dog ran round and round the utility room, shrieking and barking, until Molly popped her head through the connecting door to see exactly what was the cause of such hilarity.

'Well, he certainly looks cleaner!' Molly exclaimed. 'But isn't he rather thin?'

'Very thin,' Sherlock agreed. He had felt the puppy's ribs during the bathing. The thick coat of fur had camouflaged the fact before but, now the puppy was wet, his skinniness was really obvious. 'He's either been living rough for a very long time or not being fed properly whereever he was living,' he added. Both Molly and Sherlock suspected that the latter was the most likely.

'Well, we can give him something to eat now,' Molly said, 'something light that won't upset his stomach. How about some tinned tuna? We have some in the cupboard.'

Sherlock agreed that was a good idea so Molly went off to take care of it. In the meanwhile, William and Freddie squatted on the Utility Room floor, petting the damp puppy, as Sherlock went round with a mop to clean up all the wet paw prints. When the area was back to looking as it had before Operation Bathtime had begun, they all went through into the kitchen and Molly placed a bowl of Tuna Chunks under the canine's nose. It didn't take him long to polish it off.

'The big question is,' Molly began, looking down at the little animal, 'where is he going to sleep?'

'My bedwoom! My bedwoom! Please!' Freddie begged.

'No, he's not sleeping in anyone's bedroom, Freddie, he can sleep here in the kitchen,' Molly insisted, to many 'aw's and 'ah's from her sons. 'No, what I meant was, what is he going to sleep in?'

'How about the laundry basket?' Sherlock suggested.

'Yes! With a Weeper Cushion in it to make it cosy!' Freddie immediately agreed.

'I don't think we have any Reaper Cushions at the moment, Freddie,' Sherlock replied, trying very hard to keep a straight face.

'He could have my blankie,' William offered. This was indeed a kind and generous offer on William's part because his blankie was still very dear to him.

'That's very sweet of you, Will,' Molly said, with a fond smile, 'but I think we have plenty of old towels that would be perfect. And if he should pee on them, it won't matter so much.'

The thought of puppy pee on his precious blankie was enough to convince William that an old towel would be a much better idea so the laundry basket was brought through from the Utility Room and an old towel was put in the bottom of it and the puppy was placed in it too. He wasted no time in lying down and began to lick himself, thoroughly, all over to remove the last of the dampness from his fur.

The family gathered round the kitchen table and ate the supper that Molly had prepared then it was time for bath and bed as the next day was a school day. And this was going to be a big week for William. This would be his last week at school as a day boy, for a while, because he had decided to become a chorister and that meant he would be a boarder from the start of the new term.

Molly and Sherlock had both agreed that this was William's decision to make and he had made it. But they had also told him that, having given boarding a try, if he decided he didn't like it, he could come back home. That would mean giving up his place in the choir, as the commitment the choristers had to the cathedral made it necessary for them to board.

But that was a bridge they would cross if they came to it. For now, William was happy to become a termly boarder at St Paul's Cathedral School. The fact that he would still see Freddie at school every day and that Mummy worked just down the road at St Bart's made it easier for him to make the choice. And Daddy, he knew, would take good care of his bees and would come to watch him play rugby and the whole family would come to services and hear him sing. So, it wasn't such a big deal, really.

Having shared their bath together, William went off to his room to dry himself and get ready for bed, Sherlock took Freddie off to his room to get him dried and dressed in his PJ's and Molly did the same for Violet and read her a story – her current favourite, The Tiger Who Came to Tea. Sherlock read a Thomas the Tank Engine story to Freddie and then went to say good night to William, who was allowed to read in bed for half an hour.

'Have you got everything ready for the morning, Will?' Sherlock asked, even though he knew the answer would be in the affirmative. William so liked to be organised.

'Do you think Mummy will let us keep the puppy?' William asked, when his father bent to kiss him good night.

'Well, it's not really down to Mummy,' Sherlock replied, with a tone of resignation. 'It depends whether we find out who owned him before. But let's hope no one else wants him, eh?'

'Yes, let's' William agreed.

ooOoo

After sorting out the kitchen and loading the dish washer, Sherlock leaned over the puppy in his basket and scratched him behind the ears. It had been suggested – by Molly, of course – to add one of Sherlock's worn t-shirts to the doggie bed, so that the little animal could smell the human who had rescued him and fed him and made him feel secure, in the hope that it would prevent him getting lonely in the night and waking everyone up by yapping or howling.

Switching off all the lights, Sherlock made his way upstairs to the master bedroom. Molly was just coming through from the bathroom, after completing her bedtime beauty regime.

'You look exhausted!' Sherlock observed.

'Yes, I am a bit. An early night is just what this doctor orders,' she declared, emphatically.

'How about I give you a massage?' Sherlock suggested, reaching out to stroke her long, loose, freshly brushed hair.

'A massage, Mr Holmes?' she retorted, with a coquettish smile. 'But I'm not even pregnant!'

'The night is yet young, Molly Hooper,' he replied, scraping her hair to one side to expose the nape of her neck and pressing his lips there instead.

Much later, as they lay entwined in each other's arms, her head resting on his shoulder and his cheek pressed to her crown, Molly said,

'Sherlock, tell me about Redbeard.'

She felt his body tense, momentarily, and then relax again as he exhaled a long slow breath.

'Ok, well,' he began, 'Red beard was bred on the estate, by our game keeper at the time, to be a gun dog. Trouble was, he hated the sound of the guns. He would run away, every time a gun went off. They were going to put him down because a gun dog that's afraid of guns is no use to anyone.'

He paused for a brief moment of reminiscence then continued.

'Anyway, I begged and begged them to let me have him for a pet. No one was very keen on the idea. My mother didn't like dogs in the house and my father didn't see the point of a dog other than as a working animal but, for some reason I still don't quite understand, Mycroft persuaded them to let me keep him.'

'Mycroft has always done his best to look out for you, Sherlock, you know that,' Molly scolded, mildly.

'Yes, I suppose so,' Sherlock tutted then went on with the story.

'So I was told I could keep the puppy on condition that he never made a mess or damaged anything or made a nuisance of himself in any way – so, a bit like me, really! We were both tolerated. And I called him Redbeard, after my favourite pirate story, and I had him for six years.'

He stopped there and Molly waited to see if he would say anything more. When he didn't, she asked,

'So what happened after six years?'

There was another long silence, with a number of deep breaths in and slow breaths out and Molly wrapped her arms more tightly around her husband and stroked his chest. Eventually, he spoke again and his voice was remarkably steady but soft, barely more than a whisper.

'When I was ten, I did something very stupid. I confronted my father, right there at the dinner table, about all his affairs with other women.'

Molly closed her eyes, already knowing what he was about to say and dreading hearing it.

'My father was absolutely furious. I was sent my room and had to stay there for a whole week – the whole of half term, as it happens. When I was eventually allowed out, Redbeard was nowhere to be found. He was gone.'

'Oh, God, Sherlock!' Molly gasped, tears pricking her eyes.

'I looked everywhere and, in the end, I went to see the game keeper and asked him if he knew where Redbeard was.'

He stopped again to take more steadying breaths then said,

'My father had shot him.'

Molly pulled Sherlock's head to her chest and stroked his hair soothingly.

'So, it was my fault,' he said, at last, cuffing his cheeks with the heel of his hand.

'No, it bloody well was not your fault!' Molly hissed. 'Don't you _dare_ think it was your fault! It was the fault of that sadistic bastard control freak of a philandering father!'

Despite himself, Sherlock gave a cracked chuckle.

'Don't hold back, Molly! Tell it how it is!' he wheezed.

'Well, it's the bloody truth,' Molly retorted, colouring with embarrassment at her outburst. 'And I'll tell you something else,' she added, 'if that puppy isn't microchipped, we're keeping him! OK?'

She drew back so she could see Sherlock's face.

'OK?' she repeated.

'Yes. Thank you, Molly,' he replied and placed a tender kiss on her cheek.

'And, we'll call him Redbeard II! How about that?' she added.

'Just Redbeard,' he said with a wink.

'Oh, god, what a day this has been!' Molly sighed, snuggling back up to Sherlock's shoulder.

'Just another quiet Sunday,' he replied.

ooOoo

 **So that's it! All done! Many thanks to Sherlolly29 for her beautiful and inspirational artwork. And now there's a new addition to my Sherlolly family - well, maybe two...?**


	8. Quiet Sunday Epilogue

**This extra chapter is dedicated to WayTooEasilyObsessed, for reasons :) (But I know lots of you wanted it, too!)**

 **Epilogue**

'I would say this little chap is approximately sixteen weeks old, judging from his dentition,' the vet – Dr Rob, according to his ID badge – said. 'He has a couple of his adult gnashers but most of his teeth are deciduous.'

'He's not very big for sixteen weeks,' Sherlock commented.

'No, absolutely not and he's as skinny as a rake, too! This poor little beast is verging on emaciated. He hasn't been fed nearly enough or often enough for his age and size and his degree of activity. A dog of this breed, at this age, should be getting around 1600 calories a day, split between three or four meals. He hasn't been getting anywhere near that.'

The vet squeezed the little dog's belly and frowned.

'I wouldn't mind betting he's full of worms, too. I don't expect he's been wormed at all and all puppies are born with a worm burden, from their mothers.'

The vet parted the animal's fur to have a close look at his skin.

'Hmm,' he said, 'flea eggs. And ticks, too, I shouldn't wonder, judging from where you found him. There are a lot of deer in Epping Forest. They are the prime carriers of tics.'

Sherlock gave an involuntary shudder. He had some history with tics.

'Sorry, am I grossing you out?' the vet grinned, apologetically.

'No, not at all,' Sherlock replied. 'I have a previous association with tics – Lime Disease. Fortunately, it was caught early.'

'Oh, that was lucky! Left untreated, that could have caused permanent damage,' the vet chirped, warming to his subject.

'So I understand,' Sherlock replied, leaving no doubt in the vet's mind that a change of subject would be advisable.

'OK, little fella,' Dr Rob said, brightly, 'let's scan you and see if you've got a chip.'

Taking out a hand-held scanner from a drawer behind him, the vet ran the instrument over and around the dog's head, neck and shoulders then down his back – on the off-chance that a chip might have migrated, which they had been known to do – but there was no response whatsoever from the machine. It remained resolutely silent.

'Nope, he's not microchipped,' Rob concluded. 'No surprise there! I mean, someone who can't be bothered to worm or feed or de-flea a dog isn't going to fork out for micro-chipping, are they?'

'Does that mean there's no way of finding his previous owners?' Sherlock asked, casually.

'Unfortunately not, which is a great shame, actually.'

'Why so?' queried Sherlock.

'Well, I'd quite like to give them a piece of my mind!' Dr Rob exclaimed. 'That notwithstanding, they could be liable for prosecution for neglect but without absolute proof that the dog belonged to them, it's doubtful we'd get a conviction.'

'I see,' Sherlock replied, with the ghost of a smile. 'So what happens now?'

'Well, it's good of you to bring him in. We'll get him wormed and de-infested, fatten him up a bit and see he goes to a good animal shelter. The likelihood is he'll be rehomed easily enough, being so young. Puppies usually go quite quickly…'

'No!' Sherlock exclaimed, taking the vet, the puppy and himself rather by surprise. Dr Rob and Redbeard both looked at him, apprehensively.

'No…no need to do that…,' Sherlock blustered, with embarrassment, 'Er, no…I mean, do the de-flea and worming thing, of course, but we would like to keep him. M-my children have become very attached to him and we have a vacancy in our home for a…dog…'

As the consulting detective stuttered into silence, like a motor running down, the vet favoured him with an understanding smile.

'Well, you know, Mr Holmes, if this puppy were to go to a rehoming centre, I can't imagine him ever finding a more loving, caring home that the one he's already found. So, far as I'm concerned, this puppy belongs to you and I will register him as such.'

'Thank you,' Sherlock replied, with a gauche grin. 'So, what does he need?'

ooOoo

Half an hour later, Sherlock and Redbeard left the vet's with a pack of spot-on tic and flea treatments, a pack of puppy worming pills, a bag of special formula 'large dog' puppy food and a vaccination certificate, plus an appointment to return in four weeks' time for a second vaccination and an advice sheet about not letting the puppy walk around in a public place or mix with other dogs until two weeks after his second jab.

Sherlock had also taken the opportunity to buy a bright blue collar and matching lead, a collection of puppy toys, a soft, warm puppy bed and a pack of puppy training pads which - he was reliably informed – were impregnated with some pheromone or other that would encourage the animal to use them as a toilet, rather than using the floor.

'Might I also suggest you consider getting a puppy crate?' the vet had added, as he handed the little beast back to his new master. 'It may sound counter-intuitive but a crate can be like a home from home to a dog, somewhere he can sleep at night, and you be sure he's not chewing the legs off the kitchen table, and somewhere he can go to escape the over-zealous attentions of a young family, if you know what I mean?'

'I think I do,' Sherlock replied, shaking the man by the hand.

He took a cab, Redbeard curled up contentedly in his master's lap, and on arrival home, Sherlock wasted no time installing the puppy and his belongings in the kitchen, right next to the aga – the warmest place in the house, in the winter and the very position that the first Redbeard had favoured, in a different house, in a different century. Sherlock then sat at the kitchen table, watching the dog sleep, hardly able to contain his excitement as he anticipated how the boys would react when they came home to find they had a new permanent housemate.

ooOoo

When the Hooper-Holmes' resident nanny, Marie, arrived homewith William and Freddie, just after four o'clock, Sherlock was waiting in the front hall.

'Daddy! Daddy! What did the vet say?'

'Was he micwochipped, Daddy? Was he?'

'Can is he still here, Daddy?'

'Daddy, has he gone?'

Sherlock tried very hard to maintain a solemn expression throughout this barrage of questions but his facial muscles were having none of it. He broke into a broad grin.

'He's still here. We're keeping him. He's ours!' he declared.

'Yaaaaaaaaaaaaay!' shouted both the boys in unison and they ran round and round the hall way, hopping and skipping and jumping with delight, chanting,

'We're keeping him! He's ours! We're keeping him! He's ours! We're keeping him! We're keeping him! We're keeping him! He's ours!'

And in the midst of all the hullaballoo, a sharp barking could be heard, coming from the kitchen. The two boys stopped dead in their tracks then ran to the kitchen door and opened it. Redbeard came racing out and jumped up at each of them in turn, greeting them and welcoming them home, then ran off round the room, barking excitedly.

'OK, shush now,' Sherlock said, holding up his hands to calm the situation down a touch. The puppy came to rest right in front of Freddie and sat on the boy's foot, leaning against his leg and looking up, expectantly, at the four humans.

'Can we take him for a walk, Daddy?' William asked.

'Not for a few weeks, until he's had his next injection, but we can take him out in the garden. Sherlock replied.

'Yes! Yes! Let's go out in the garden!' Freddie yelled.

'I've bought him a ball!' Sherlock announced, with glee, as they made their way through the kitchen to the back door.

Suddenly concerned, William asked, 'Does Mummy know we're keeping him?'

'Yes, I texted her,' his father replied.

William looked doubtful. 'And does she mind?'

'No, William, she's delighted,' Sherlock assured his eldest, with a gentle hand on the shoulder. 'She was just being cautious, yesterday, in case Redbeard's owners insisted on having him back. But, as it turns out, they don't want him so - their loss is our gain!'

All smiles, they trouped out into the garden, bathed in late afternoon sunshine, for the first of many games of 'run and fetch' with the family dog – and it wasn't just Redbeard doing the running and fetching!

ooOoo

 **There! A bonus chapter for all my lovely loyal readers!**


End file.
